Growing Pains

She spins in circles
reaching for the moon,
Colors swirl; unique,  these portals
to a universe unbound.

She is lace and air
with a cell phone glued to one ear,
an MP-3 hard wired
to the other.

She can’t be painted, no matter
the cut of the corner.  A graceful whorl
comes close but it cannot bridge the gap
between esprit and synapse.

Free
from any conventional syntax
she spins, trying to touch the moon,
never doubting that she can.

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